


with open arms

by magickus



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Creampie, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hyur Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), M/M, Male Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Memories, Misunderstandings, POV G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch, Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal Spoilers, Penis In Vagina Sex, Top G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch, Trans Male Character, Trans Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:01:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25874041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magickus/pseuds/magickus
Summary: SPOILERS FOR 5.3!G’raha may have those memories, but can he be that person again? What if Claran does not want him like this?
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 15
Kudos: 84





	with open arms

**Author's Note:**

> once again directing you to the spoiler tag.
> 
> some feminine terms used for claran's junk here. if that causes any discomfort, please take care of yourself first and foremost.  
> had to write something after crying over 5.3 for ages

When he wakes for the first— second—  _ last  _ time inside the twisting bowels of the Crystal Tower, he is not alone, and his head is filled to bursting. The memories are his and not-his, flavored different, foreign as they play against the inside of his eyes when he shuts them. He recalls, with startling clarity, people he has never met, places he has never seen, things he has never done— a century’s wealth of knowledge tucked away in a neat, delicate little package in the back of his skull, dusted like an antique. His name is written upon the box, but it is not  _ his. _

But it is. It feels right. He is an amalgam now, like those dreadful Allagan experiments populating the Tower, curled in their crystal chassis like babes swaddled by blankets. He empathizes with their plight, as he comes wading to awareness, sleep pulling on his limbs like bog mud dragging him back beneath the surface. He looks down to his arms and finds skin, and when he closes his eyes he sees crystal.

Krile and the Warrior of Light— Claran, he reminds himself, their familiarity foreign on his tongue— are there to accompany him to consciousness. Krile, her eyes sunken and dark with the shadows of exhaustion, looks over his aether for abnormalities, while Claran examines his body. He feels nothing more worrisome than the aches of sleeping upon uncomfortable crystal and a physical examination is hardly necessary. He plans on telling Claran such. He truly does. But as soft, gentle fingers squeeze his wrist and travel up the breadth of his bare arm, he cannot allow the words to leave his mouth.

He remembers Claran, too. He is… changed, from the last time G’raha saw him (at least in _ this  _ present), before the doors closed and unconsciousness took him. There is a weight on his shoulders now, a burden. Ascians, Amarout, Sundering. All the information they learned together should be overwhelming, but G’raha’s mind accepts it as easily as it accepts the blue sky.

Claran’s star is one of the brightest in his constellation of memory. There is so much there to see, twinkling in his mind; from the agony of waiting for him, the joy of his arrival, the exhilaration of their adventures together, the taste of skin against his tongue—

G’raha feels hot. Krile glances up at him, her brow quirked, and he quickly turns his head to avoid her gaze.

So their relationship was…  _ very  _ familiar. The young, eager part of G’raha, still ever-present, leaps for joy inside of his chest. He always carried a blossoming infatuation with their esteemed Warrior of Light, up until the very moment he sealed himself away, but his admiration came with the sour, inevitable impossibility of reciprocation. Claran had been the Warrior of Light, the brightest mind in Eorzea, and he was no more than an overeager scholar of Allag with a schoolboy crush.

But it had happened, if the memories planted in his head from a different time are to be trusted— and he finds himself to be a trustworthy person. But that was not  _ him,  _ was it? It was not G’raha Tia that Claran confided in, that Claran loved. G’raha may have those memories, but can he be that person again? What if Claran does not want him like this?

The bitter taste returns again. Of course, he would accept it. He would accept anything Claran could possibly ask of him.

So he says nothing, and when Claran asks him if he is alright, he smiles and nods and accepts his memories as nothing more than echoes of a lost time.

It remains unaddressed. G’raha does his best to move on and fit in with the established, tight camaraderie of the other Scions, but he feels the odd man out no matter how hard he tries, and sometimes he catches Claran  _ staring  _ at him, his eyes shining and unbearably sad. Does he see the man G’raha used to be? Does he miss that person?

It eats away at him and affects his ability to perform his best in his duties as a Scion. It takes great effort, but he pushes it aside. Claran is already moving on, after all. It is far past time he does the same.

...Which is harder than he thought it would be. It isn’t long until someone catches him pining.

“Have you not told him?” Y’shtola asks over tea, so suddenly that he nearly inhales scalding liquid. He sputters and coughs, thumping a fist against his chest.

“T-told who? What?”

Y’shtola closes her eyes, the picture of serenity as G’raha tries not to fall apart too noticeably. She says nothing— there is no need. G’raha crumples.

“...No. I-I have not.”

“Why?”

She is not pulling her punches in the slightest. Has he really been  _ that  _ obvious? He supposes the issue would have to be addressed at some point, preferably in the far distant future when it stung less and they could look back on it and laugh. “I do not want to cause him any discomfort,” he answers, his voice low as he flattens himself back into his chair. “I may retain memories of… our past together, but I am not that same person. If Claran is no longer interested, then I will not be one to press the matter.”

Y’shtola hums. She takes a long, indulgent sip of her tea. “And what, exactly, led you to the conclusion that Claran is no longer interested?”

G’raha opens his mouth. Then he closes it. He looks down at the table, blinking rapidly. “I…”

Y’shtola chuckles. “Claran has been keeping his distance under the assumption that you did not recall your memories, because you never saw fit to tell him such.”

Oh.  _ Oh. _ G’raha feels like the grandest, most inspired idiot in all of Mor Dhona— nay, the whole damn  _ star.  _ He could kick himself. “I did not—”

She lifts a hand and he falls silent. “As much as I would like to see you both happy once again, G’raha,” she says evenly, “I should not be the one to hear this explanation.” She shoots him a sly glance out of the corner of her eye and smirks. “Would you not agree?”

G’raha’s tongue is thick and dry in his mouth and he nearly upends his teacup in his rush to get out of his chair. He hurries down the walk to the balcony stairs, then freezes in place.

“Er… Y’shtola?”

“Try the Rising Stones,” she says. “You’re welcome.”

He thanks her profusely as he takes the stairs two at a time.

Numerous heads snap to him as he throws the door to the Rising Stones open, the wood clattering loudly against the stone wall. He pauses, breathing hard from his sprint across Revenant’s Toll, and he realizes how dishevelled and flustered he looks. 

“Ah… G’raha?”

His ears swivel to the source of that soft, melodious voice. He turns his head and finds Claran sitting at a table by himself, a puzzle of books splayed out before him. His snowy hair has gained a few scant ilms in length, curling in gentle waves over his ears and the back of his neck. His brows lower in concern. “Is everything okay? You seem shaken.”

G’raha closes his eyes and takes a moment to measure his heaving breaths, willing them to slow before he works everyone into a panic. “I’m fine,” he says, once he regains some manner of control over himself. He needs to be poised, calm— like he used to be. It is too easy to dip into those memories and become them.

Claran frowns and tips his head to one side, justifiably in disbelief. “Are you  _ sure?” _ he presses.

“Yes. I… I would like to speak with you.” His eyes dart around the full bar, where multiple heads are turned to stare at them, and those that are not staring are trying to pretend not to listen. “In private. Please.”

There would be whispers nonetheless. So be it— let them gossip. He needs to focus on fixing the mess he made.

Claran assesses him for another moment, then nods. He stands and makes his way around G’raha, taking great care to not accidentally let them touch. It hurts more than it should, though if G’raha can somehow manage to salvage this, and he is stubbornly hanging onto hope, then there should not be a need for any more pain. For either of them.

Claran leads him through the halls of the Rising Stones, and G’raha’s heart leaps into the throat as he realizes he’s being taken to Claran’s private chambers. No one dared bother the Warrior of Light in his own rooms, not unless there was a dire emergency. But they are just going to  _ talk.  _ Nothing more— unless Claran asks for it.

Claran’s room is surprisingly messy. Books and papers litter the floor, stacked in precarious, teetering piles, likely to give at any moment. Claran clears his throat and hobbles across the floor, picking his way carefully across. “S-sorry for the mess,” he says, so quietly G’raha has to perk his ears forward to catch it. “I don’t… use this room very often. You can sit if you like.”

He clears a stack of books off the chair pushed against the wooden desk and brushes dust off its surface. G’raha nods his thanks as he sits, and Claran takes a space on the neatly made bed across from him, his hands folded in his lap and one ankle crossed over the other. He keeps his head angled down and his brown eyes rest on a fixed point somewhere around G’raha’s cheek, creating the illusion of eye-contact without actually making it.

“O-okay, um… What did you need to talk about?”

G’raha takes a long, deep breath, letting the air fill his lungs. His stomach twists itself into knots as the possibility of rejection still lingers inside him making his hands tremble ever so slightly. He grips a fistful of the edge of his tunic.

“I fear, since my awakening, I have not given you the honesty you deserve, concerning my mind and memories,” G’raha begins. “And for that you have my sincerest, and utmost apologies. I promised you then that I would never lie to you again, Claran, and it was my full intention to stay true to that, but in my own doubts I have inadvertently hidden information from you yet again, and it pains me greatly to have caused you distress by my own error.”

Claran listens patiently as G’raha meanders to the crux of the issue, as opposed to addressing it directly. It takes time to work up to it. He needs to do everything right.

“I…” His words catch in his throat. He swallows and pushes them through. “I have not told you, but… I recall, with the brightest clarity, the way you— that we would—”

His cheeks grow hot and his mind fuzzy, his mouth dry and his tongue uncooperative as his thoughts scatter in his embarrassment. Claran tips his head to the side, his lips ever so slightly parted, and though G’raha does not consider himself a man of impulse (not any longer, at least) he is almost overcome with the longing to close the distance between them, but he would never dare do that unless he was absolutely certain that Claran desired him in turn.

“I remember…  _ everything,  _ Claran. Nothing was left out or cast aside when my mind returned to my body. I never said anything about it because I wrongly assumed that you would not want me, because I am no longer the Exarch you knew, and I did not want to cause you any discomfort or pressure you into a relationship you did not desire. I realize now how wrong it was of me to withhold something so important from you, and the suffering I have caused you as a result. And I must apologize again.” G’raha lowers his head, his ears flat in his shame. “If you would choose not to forgive me, then—”

“G’raha.”

Claran, having listened to everything he had to say with such unerring patience, finally interrupts him. G’raha looks up, stricken, expecting to be scolded or denied or…

He sees the faintest smile, the soft glaze of moisture glistening in dark eyes. He would never forgive himself for making Claran cry. “I… I thought you didn’t remember,” he whispers. “This is supposed to be a new life for you, a fresh start, and I didn’t want to tie you to me, or to make you feel any obligation…”

“No, no.” G’raha gives into that impulse and moves from his seat, striding across the room to kneel before Claran on the dusty floor and take careful hold of his hands, so impossibly soft despite all the countless trials Claran has faced. “I should never have kept this from you. There is nothing I want more on this star than to be by your side, to join you on your adventures, to cherish every sweet moment, to make so many new, incredible memories.” He stands and cups Claran’s cheek, stroking his soft, brown skin with his thumb, bending down so their gazes meet properly. Claran does not avoid him, and the moment they look into each other’s eyes is electrifying. “I would do it all again, if you will have me.”

Claran sucks in a shaking breath. His eyes droop, long white lashes sweeping against round cheeks. He leans into G’raha’s palm. “Of course,” he says. There is no pause, not a moment of hesitation. “I don’t know what I would do without you, Raha. Please.”

The sound of his name spoken with such informality ignites something inside him. All the thoughts in his head grind to an abrupt halt and without asking G’raha surges forward and captures Claran’s tempting, parted lips in a longing kiss.

Claran squeaks against his mouth, tense with surprise for a scant moment before he melts. G’raha pours everything into it. All his longing, his need, his memories. He lets it fill the spaces between them, closing up all the emptiness and distance that had formed. He leans forward further, planting a knee up onto the bed, and Claran moves back, their lips locked in a tantalizing dance that breaks suddenly as Claran loses his balance and falls back against the bed.

There is a flash in his mind, of Claran beneath him just like this, teary-eyed and needy, and G’raha needs it fiercely, as parched for this as he was for water when he first woke from his slumber.

“Forgive me,” he breathes. “I-I do not know what came over me. I should have asked first.”

Claran smiles shyly, turning his head to the side, his cheeks flushed dark, lips swollen from their kiss. “I-it’s alright. I… I don’t mind. I-if you… If you want to do it again…”

G’raha might burst. He takes another deep breath and moves up onto the bed, slotting himself between Claran’s legs. He hears the faint hitching of breath and scents the cloying build of arousal. “Do you want more?” he asks, his voice dropping an octave lower than usual. Claran’s eyes grow hot and dark as he gazes up from beneath his lashes, demure and delectable.

“Yes.”

It is all the confirmation G’raha needs. He descends, hungry,  _ ravenous,  _ after what feels simultaneously like an eternity of waiting and no time at all. Claran moans loud and wanton as G’raha’s lips and tongue press to his neck, creating new memories of the taste of his skin, of the frantic beat of his butterfly pulse beneath the flat of his tongue.

His trousers grow uncomfortably tight in the blink of an eye. It is both a blessing and a curse to be young again. Unable to resist the pull, he rolls his hips forward, grinding against Claran’s hips, and earns himself a soft gasp as a result. He may have changed, but Claran’s responsiveness has not.

“What do you want?” G’raha asks, his lips moving across the thin skin of Claran’s clavicle. He will do anything for Claran at this point. If he asked for the whole star itself, G’raha would see it done.

Claran’s breath rattles wetly. “You,” he says. His small, soft hands card through G’raha’s hair, pushing at the tie until it falls in a loose curtain around his shoulders. His fingers rub against the base of one of G’raha’s ears and the sensation sends a flurry of shivers down his spine, a purr bubbling up from his throat. “Inside. Please.”

G’raha’s tail curls in delight. “Of course.”

His teeth nip at Claran’s skin, mindful of the sharp points of his fangs. He leaves behind a scattering of purple set into his flesh and Claran wiggles beneath him, sighing and shivering at his attention. G’raha tugs Claran’s shirt up and over his head and casts it aside without a care. He stoops down low to kiss him again as his hands drift across newly exposed skin.

He has been here, too. He recalls with crystal-clear clarity the maps of Claran’s body he has made; the soft places that give at the slightest touch, the points on his inner thighs, neck, and middle that make him squirm. Claran’s muscles shake and jump as he drifts his fingers feather-light across the sensitive, ticklish plane of Claran’s round belly, dancing across the lanes of scars. He remembers his laugh and bends down to hear it again, and again, peppering Claran’s stomach with kisses until he squeals and wriggles to try and escape it, giggling high and breathless. 

The musical sound peters out into a moan as G’raha slips his hand beneath the band of Claran’s trousers and underthings and seeks out his heat. He slips his fingers easily between folds swollen with arousal, coating him with slippery slick. Claran presses the back of his hand to his mouth to muffle his sounds, his body shaking with tension as G’raha slowly drags the pads of his fingers back and forth. “You are... so wet,” he observes with muted awe. Remembering something and experiencing it are two very different things.

“R-Raha…” Claran ducks his head in embarrassment, hiding his face behind his hands. G’raha feels a pang and leans forward to gently usher Claran’s hands away. “It is alright,” he says. He kisses Claran’s cheeks. “Forgive me, I find myself at a loss. Being here, now, in this body… it is…”

Claran adjusts himself on the bed and one thigh presses up between G’raha’s legs. He clenches his jaw hard and focuses all his effort on not coming in his pants. He breathes hard, reeling with pleasure. “I-it is difficult to adjust.”

Claran smiles. G’raha is not entirely sure if the gesture was an accident. In quiet revenge he presses insistently against the swollen head of Claran’s clit, pushing the hood back as he rubs it in quick, relentless circles, until Claran shakes and cries out, thighs shaking. “I-I’m ready! I’m— oh,  _ please,  _ please Raha, I—”

“Oh, my dear.” G’raha presses countless kisses against every ilm of Claran’s face. “May I?”

_ “Yes. Please.” _

Anticipation curdles and twists in his belly. G’raha withdraws and fumbles with their clothing, his slick fingers slipping on his buckles. Claran sits up to assist, kissing him ravenously until they are both bare. He feels himself leaking as he lies Claran back and parts his legs, but he quells his desire and takes a moment to look. Claran’s folds open for him, a pretty pink in color and glistening with slick, his hole clenching around nothing in anticipation of being full. G’raha, captivated, reaches down and pulls the hood of Claran’s clit back with his thumb, watching as the large bud throbs at the attention. He licks his lips, recalling his taste, the cloying sweetness against his tongue...

“Ra...ha…”

Claran’s weak protest stirs him out of his musing. He has kept him waiting long enough. G’raha stoops down to kiss Claran, soft and apologetic, soothing his need as he takes hold of himself and slowly, carefully, pushes in.

It is a bliss closer to agony. He drops his head against Claran’s shoulder and groans, louder than he intended, but his control over his own body slips from his grasp. Claran keens as he thrusts in, bottoming out in one smooth motion. It feels as if his entire  _ being  _ has been encompassed by heat. He feels dizzy, drunk with the smooth glide and hot friction of Claran’s hole.

He sets an unsteady pace, jerking his hips back and forth with little finesse. “Oh,  _ Claran,”  _ he moans. He grasps at the smaller body beneath him, holds him close and tight, and swears to himself to never let go again. “My dear, my love, my  _ inspiration…” _

Claran hiccups and sobs, trembling in G’raha’s grasp. He grips back just as tight, nails digging into G’raha’s shoulders.  _ “Raha… Raha…!”  _ he calls, an unending mantra of his name, his walls drawing tight and bringing him in deeper until all that emptiness between them is finally  _ gone. _

The pleasure takes hold of him and pulls him under before he can stop it. G’raha groans, his hips stuttering as he comes hard enough to send sparks flying across his eyes. He buries himself as deep in Claran as he can go and spills, his tail curling in satisfaction and relief. Claran cries out as G’raha fills him up, his body trembling and writhing, tears leaking from his long lashes.

Oh, he’s close. Dutifully G’raha reaches between their bodies and presses his thumb to Claran’s throbbing clit. Claran’s voice raises in pitch and volume, his spine bowing with pleasure as G’raha strokes and tugs at him, his pace certain and unerring in his determination to drive Claran to the throes of ecstasy. Claran sucks in labored breaths and a few moments later comes with a cry, his pussy drawing so tight around G’raha’s softening cock that he wonders if he may be able to come  _ again.  _ He shivers with oversensitivity but endures it, milking Claran through his release, drawing out those endless waves that make him shake, until he whimpers and curls in on himself and G’raha gives him reprieve.

G’raha’s limbs feel heavy and sated, his mind fuzzy and thick with cotton. He pulls out of Claran’s heat with a groan, electricity racing up his spine, and collapses onto the bed beside him.

“Raha…” Claran breathes, his voice weak and soft. G’raha, without needing to be told, turns over and gathers Claran up in his arms, holding him close and tight, savoring his warmth and scent. He buries his face against Claran’s neck and breathes in deep.

“Did… did you enjoy that?” he asks. Claran nods, his fingers moving once more through G’raha’s hair and rubbing at his ears. They flick in his grasp and Claran giggles.

“Yes. A lot. I-I missed you. Part of me was so worried that… If I wasn’t enough, then…”

His gut twists. G’raha pulls back enough to look into Claran’s eyes, frowning. “You will  _ always  _ be enough. More than enough. I still cannot comprehend why, of all people, you would feel such things for  _ me, _ but—”

“I could say the same for you.” Claran cups G’raha’s cheeks and leans up to kiss the tip of his nose. “I love you.”

G’raha takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He basks in the moment, savors the feel of Claran’s body in his arms, the warmth and weight of his love. He commits it to memory, filing it away in a place for his new life. The where and when become so much less important, so long as they are together.

“I love you,” he echoes. “In this world and the next.”


End file.
